


Forgiveness

by Val_Creative



Series: Warlock & His Dollophead [26]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bottom Merlin, Humor, M/M, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin’s done pretending. He likes Arthur. He does. It’s nothing personal. His <i>Avalon</i> cigarette lighter hides a 4.5-mm single-shot pistol. He has to make it count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> (A very special thank you to my friends on Skype who encouraged this on, even when I was whining, and The Merlin Family as well as The Warlock and His King Network on Tumblr for being a wonderfully excitable bunch ❤ ❤ ❤ )
> 
>  
> 
> Day #26: "boring sex"

*

 

Merlin's done pretending.

He likes Arthur. He does. It's not anything personal.

The soft-sharp bristles of Arthur's facial hair drag against Merlin's fingertips. He really was _very_ handsome for a complete prat. Merlin eyes him, guardedly, his arms propped up and cradling to the sides of Arthur's head. He lies nude and quiet between two muscular legs. He feels Arthur's diaphragm rise below him, ticking out an invisible, serene measure.

Merlin settles his chin into the blond nest of hair, indulging a moment in observing Arthur's eyelids twitch but he doesn't wake.

Somehow it's better this way.

Arthur murmurs in his sleep, unawares of Merlin nuzzling and pressing a messy kiss or two to his sternum. He takes up his _Avalon_ cigarette lighter and screws off its top.

It's _never_ personal.

 

*

 

In the winter of '98, Merlin had strangled a mother.

She begged for her life, whimpering, teary-eyed and shameless. Gasping out the names of her children, to stop, they need me _please pleaseImbeggingyou_ , when Merlin tightened the belt around her frail, purpling neck. It had been so easy to lure her, playing the innocent hitchhiker. He was fourteen years old and had already killed two others before her.

Guns were impersonal, but simpler means to an end. That's what Merlin wanted to see—an _end_. Bloody or screaming in an empty room, with glaring eyes or prayers on their lips.

The _thrill_ of spiking adrenaline coursed through his veins. It dried the insides of his mouth.

Merlin burned her corpse until her skin flayed a crusty black, disposing what remained in one of the Lanchester canals.

 

*

 

The air today smells like cinnamon and a hint of disinfectant.

It helps Merlin disengage from his own whirring mind, concentrating instead on the documents and spreadsheets pulled up in front of him.

"May I plug in here?"

"Sure, mate," he says, not looking up from his humming laptop. "Don't let me stop you."

A curt laugh.

"I assumed it would only be polite," comes a deep voice. The polyester, swivel chair across from Merlin's table groans under new weight. "I'm Arthur, by the way."

Merlin chances a look up, despite his mental urge to neglect all other intelligent life-forms. Regardless or whether or not they approached him. Terribly handsome bloke with a long, sculpted nose. Chapped pink lips drawn up in a ever-faint smirk. Maybe he was in early thirties. Would make a decent shag. Yes, Merlin should _definitely_ ignore him.

He peers back at Merlin expectantly, light-colored eyebrows climbing up.

Merlin then notices his outstretched hand. Merlin's hand jerks up in automatic thought, knocking over his cup of espresso. "Fuck," he yells inside the busy coffee shop, startling a passing man sporting aquamarine dreadlocks. Merlin slams his laptop lid forcefully, rescuing it in his arms as the dark-liquid pool grows on the table.

Arthur stuffs napkins into his hand, thanking the manager for a fresh roll of paper towel to use.

"No harm done?" he asks, wiping and letting the hot espresso soak in, seeing a frowning Merlin nod. The tips of his ears reddened.

"You sure?"

"Fine," Merlin grumbles, feeling the wet patch on his right leg burning like mad. Fucking hand-eye coordination. This would only happen when he was nervous and talking to a shaggable bloke with an overly pleasant disposition and flawless, movie-star teeth, wouldn't it? _Of course_ it would. So fuck the universe. Gravity, too.

Arthur glances towards Merlin's tremoring leg, but doesn't invade his space.

"You're hurt."

"M'fine, doesn't hurt," he says, stiffly.

"You're not a very good liar."

"Better than _you_ ," Merlin challenges, just because he can, just because it brings a grin to Arthur's face. There's something enigmatic to it— _something_ Merlin's familiar with.

Arthur's hand falls to the back of Merlin's chair, and he imagines how that large hand would feel grasping roughly around Merlin's neck, or slippery around his prick.

"Never did tell me your name," he says, determinedly.

Merlin blinks at him, half-smiling.

"I don't think you deserve it."

Arthur's _grin_ —it's going to get him into loads of trouble one day.

"I'll be seeing you again," Arthur promises in a whisper, lips lowering against Merlin's reddened ear, and backing away.

Merlin swallows down a heavy, moaning breath, eyes following Arthur's back.

He can't wait.

 

*

 

After another week, meeting up at the same, floral-print table, he tells Arthur who he is. Merlin: the social worker who adores YouTube kittens and a good cup of caffeine.

"What did you specialize in?" Arthur licks away the spot of foam from his upper lip, arranging his face thoughtfully.

Merlin gives a one-armed shrug, fingers tapping absently.

"Palliative and hospice social work," he explains, sensing Arthur's polite bewilderment. "I treat people who are diagnosed with terminal illness. Help them with their emotional needs."

Arthur's mouth purses.

He asks, cautiously, "People who are going to die?"

"Dying's easy." Merlin says, his expression firm, "Living is the hardest thing to do."

Arthur snorts in his direction, but not unkindly.

"I didn't take you for a _philosopher_ , Merlin," he utters, biting into his strudel-topped muffin.

"Well, I didn't take _you_ generally for someone intelligent, come to think of it," Merlin slings back, monotonous. But he feels a grin on his lips as Arthur nudges him hard under the table.

 

*

 

The teasing becomes a comforting mechanism.

He feels himself get bolder with Arthur, suggestively hinting other locations, but Arthur doesn't take the bait. He's far more restrained about his personal life than Merlin.

But eventually, Merlin coerces him back to his place, offering an meal and to let Arthur go through his Blu-ray collection of classic Charlie Chaplin.

After several beers, they're loose enough to warm up a seat against the pillows next to each other, squeezing their hips and knees together. Partway through _City Lights_ , Merlin feels Arthur's hand inch over his thigh.

The sex had been… well, sex was expected. They flirted. They kissed. They prepared to fuck each other brainless.

Merlin tossed a packet of lubricant at Arthur's head, chuckling at the scowling look and mutter, and helped him with the condom ripping open. He spread his legs and himself open, listening to Arthur grunt and easing into the sensation of a cock filling him, riding out the slow, driving thrusts while on his back. Arthur fucked him into the bed like it was methodical, occasionally touching, gingerly over Merlin's ribcage or against the warm curve of his face. But Arthur didn't lift his own face, didn't gaze up, bowed in against Merlin's chest.

Somehow that tapers off lust once threatening a crescendo.

He can't _watch_ Arthur. Watching them was always the best part, killing or having sex.

Merlin keeps it going, making the appropriate, cataloging noises. He hooks his ankles to Arthur's neck, feeling him penetrate deeper. Merlin's cock bobs and tugs in his hand, growing hard once more but he can't come like this. He can't come with Arthur inside him and not fucking _looking_ at him like his entire world was being spiraled out of his control.

Like Arthur wasn't even _here_.

"Merlin, are you alright?"

Arthur's hands roam down his bare legs, raising gooseflesh. Merlin doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to _explain_.

"Yea," he breathes, eyes wandering in the adjusted dark. "Think I'm…" Merlin sighs out, letting go of the rumpled bedsheets when Arthur pulls his cock out of him, leaving those inner muscles to ache and flutter, clenching on emptiness.

"We don't have to if…" Arthur straightens up, his concerned, blue eyes finally meeting Merlin's. "If you're tired, you're more than welcome to stay and rest."

Merlin pushes the layer of sweat off his forehead with both hands, leaving them tangled in his hair.

"You're inviting me for a sleepover?" he jokes.

Arthur mumbles, turning to Merlin's side flat on his stomach, "Suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Thank you, Arthur."

He means it. Merlin knows what he _wants_ now.

As the other man embraces his waist, leaving Merlin no choice but snuggle awkwardly against him, Merlin's eyes focus on a wallet sitting to the nightstand.

 

*

 

His _Avalon_ cigarette lighter hides a 4.5-mm single-shot pistol. He has to make it count.

Merlin ruffles Arthur's hair, imagining this was what proper affection felt like. What _liking_ someone meant.

He leaves the cap on, just enough for the barrel to be exposed. Merlin pulls up his legs into a wide kneeling stance, hovering over Arthur. He's ready.

Except now Arthur's lips shift apart, words passing in a low register.

"The first time I held a gun to a man's head, he pissed all over himself." Arthur's eyes open, clear and without drowiness. "I remember how that smelled," he says, mildly.

Merlin's heart races. _Shit_ , fuck.

"Arth—"

A hand snatches to Merlin's wrist, edging on painful, jerking him down as Arthur hauls upright. Arthur's fingers grab Merlin's hair, as he drags their mouths together, jaws open and teeth clicking. Merlin feels the switch, right back on his arse, and does nothing when Arthur's muscled body grinds dominantly on him, their cocks sliding and pushed together.

Merlin barely notices the freshly sharpened blade of a dirk to his jugular vein, until it's _there_.

He chews on his tongue, waiting patiently for a signal. Or an opening.

"Who was your first, Merlin?"

 _Oh_.

Arthur stares at him as if he would like nothing better than to devour Merlin. And he could very well do that. He was _like_ Merlin.

"Don't remember," Merlin whispers, disinterested.

"I've told you that you are a _bad_ liar, Merlin."

The dirk presses on him, pressing and pressing. He feels a warm run of blood on his skin.

"Don't ever think you can _lie_ to me."

"Her name was Helen. She was an opera singer." Merlin tells him, features wary. "I wanted to know how loudly she could scream." Arthur's eyes are pupil-dark and sensational. He stops pressing the blade into Merlin's neck, rubbing his fingertips gently over the wound, smearing blood. "Why didn't you say anything if you knew who I was?"

"I wasn't sure," Arthur replies, softly, a thumb caressing Merlin's wrists still pinned to the bed. "Until now."

Merlin's heart felt like it was going a marathon, but he was more than willing to comply with Arthur.

"What now…?" he asks, neutrally.

Arthur laughed, releasing Merlin completely. He gathers up Merlin's pistol and tosses it and the dirk noisily on the floor.

"You owe me a proper fuck."

Merlin's eyes crinkled in a grin, mirroring the one above him.

"Think I can manage that," he says, coyly, grabbing whole handfuls of Arthur's perfect, tight buttocks.

 

*


End file.
